someday
by Ryuujitsu
Summary: For Edmondia Dantes-sama. 'Someday' is a dream, and sometimes, dreams don't come true. (yaoi) Bxr, YYxy


someday  
ygo oneshot  
ryuujitsu & co.  
  
Disclaimer: It's ours! Just kidding. We don't own National Geographic, either.  
  
Dedicated to Edmondia Dantes-sama. Slight shounen-ai, Bxr as always, and Yxyy if you look close enough. Based on an article read in a National Geographic issue about a man who's wife has been paralyzed for eight years due to nerve gas. Beware the double angst sign!! BEWARE!!!  
  
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= Yuugi =  
  
It's always been Bakura's dream that someday Ryou will get better, open his eyes again, that they'll get their own apartment and stay together forever, not having to worry about the world. Just themselves. Just each other.  
  
Eternity.  
  
I guess this hospital room is proof that sometimes dreams don't come true. It's a room scrubbed far too white, stuffed with plastic, festively colorful flowers, trying to be impersonal, but the somber stench of disease and death lurks on far beyond this morning's harsh, lemon-scented disinfectant. Even more proof is the white-haired boy lying on the hospital bed. Ryou's sixteenth birthday was two days ago.  
  
It's been nearly a year now.  
  
Ten months and four days since that explosion in the subway. Ten months and four days since twenty-seven people were killed. Ten months and four days since Ryou was knocked into a coma.  
  
Ten months and four days, I've been doing this.  
  
From my place by the window, I can only see his silvery hair flickering along with the florescent lights and a few faded 'Get Well' cards peeking out from beneath his pillow- -ironic, because I know the people who bought those cards knew Ryou wouldn't be able to read them. It doesn't matter now; he hasn't gotten any new cards for months, and, for all I know, Ryou's father must still think him well- -we haven't heard from the man in ages.  
  
Yami squeezes my hand. "We should go soon," he says softly. "Grandpa wanted us to help unpack the new card shipments."  
  
"Yes," I reply, but neither of us moves.  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone that I've seen everyday for the past ten months of this year slipping quietly into the room. I don't have to point him out; I know Yami sees him too.  
  
"Tomb Robber," Yami murmurs, smiling. "I was beginning to worry you weren't going to get off your lazy ass to come here."  
  
Bakura lowers his head in acknowledgment of the greeting, his hair brushing against his jaw even as he bares his fangs in a similar smile. He lopped six inches off his mane those ten months ago, and also shaved his demonic eyebrows- -which, as Yami tells me, are Egyptian ways of mourning. That was when he first heard about the accident. He's kept his hair short ever since, and it speaks adequately of his grief- -there was nothing Bakura was more proud of than his wild hair.  
  
Except Ryou.  
  
His soft-eyed Ryou.  
  
The Domino uniform does nothing for Bakura's lithe form, and he stalks in like a cat, the jacket, thrown haphazardly over one of his shoulders, flapping in the breeze his movement creates.  
  
He brushes by us silently, and the sight of that shorn hair, looking as though as it had been hacked short with a knife- -which, I suspect, is partially true- -is a terrible blow to my soul. But I've noticed recently that Bakura has been letting it grow out- -he hasn't given up on Ryou, either.  
  
He comes here every day and stays after visiting hours, just to watch over his beloved 'landlord.'  
  
At first, when Ryou collapsed on the subway, Yami blamed Bakura- -who blamed Yami. But it's been ten months, and through those ten months, the enmity between them has dropped to a minimum- -friendly arguments, quiet banter, the exchange of playful insults and nothing more than that.  
  
Bakura is holding Ryou's hands and looking at him.  
  
Contrary to popular belief, Ryou does not look like he's sleeping peacefully. He looks dead, with all those wires poking here and there at his frail body- -his cheeks are sunken and there is little of what I remember of him; he looks nothing like the photos I still have buried somewhere in my bedroom. He's not exactly a corpse, but he doesn't look healthy. The flush in his skin is gone and he looks as though he's made of white marble. I am forcibly reminded of Sleeping Beauty, but I'm afraid a kiss from our makeshift Prince Charming will do nothing for a happy ending this time.  
  
The doctors say there's a chance he might wake up. They don't know when, and they don't know if there will be any permanent damage. For all they know, Ryou may have the mentality of a two-year-old when he wakes.  
  
That doesn't matter; Yami can fix that in a flash.  
  
Ryou just has to wake up first. Oh, Ryou, can't you see how much Bakura misses you? How much he needs you? How much he loves you?  
  
Bakura slumps over the bed, pulling Ryou closer to him and resting his head on Ryou's chest. I can't be too sure, but I think he's listening to Ryou's heartbeats- -which, while slow, are still there. His eyes are closed, but even from the window I can see the tears trickling down past his eyelids and catching in his sooty eyelashes.  
  
"Yadonushi. . ."  
  
He goes on telling Ryou about his day, about classes at the university, how he and Malik were going through the attic one day and they found some of Amane's old things. . .whispering general sweetness into Ryou's ear.  
  
It's been like this for ten months and four days. I don't know if Ryou can hear him.  
  
I tug Yami towards the door. Now that Bakura's here, I feel better about leaving. At least Ryou won't be alone tonight. Then Bakura says something in a foreign tongue, and I freeze, trying to understand.  
  
Yami touches my shoulder, looking greatly saddened.  
  
"Egyptian," he says, frowning. "He says Ryou's a moron for leaving him. . .that the house is too empty without Ryou in it, and that he's hoping Ryou will wake up soon, so that he can look into his eyes again." Yami's voice is low, and I listen closely to both his translations and Bakura's own sorrowing tone. "He says he misses Ryou's eyes and how green they used to be. . ."  
  
Oh, Bakura.  
  
". . .he says he misses Ryou's voice, Ryou's hugs. . .he's begging Ryou to wake up because he misses having his hair long. . .he wants his eyebrows back, too. . .he wants Ryou back. . ."  
  
Oh, Bakura. . .  
  
"He's saying that the hospital people should use better conditioner on Ryou's hair." As Yami's deep voice lulls to a momentary halt, I can hear the bits and pieces of Japanese mixed in with the Egyptian, when Bakura can't find proper words to describe our modern appliances. "He's telling Ryou he loves him, that he's sorry he wasn't there to help. . .that he aced the exam on ancient Egypt at school. . ."  
  
Yami's breath catches in his throat. His lips curve into a bitter smile. "He's telling Ryou about the apartment they can rent together when Ryou awakens. . ."  
  
Bakura pulls Ryou's lifeless hand to his cheek tenderly; the rosy alabaster against bleached skin is a stark contrast. The once-Tomb Robber closes his eyes and murmurs something with more salty tears slipping down his cheeks. He bends down and brushes his lips against Ryou's, still breathing the same words over and over.  
  
Yami's translating has suddenly stopped; I glance up at him, questioning, and see that there are tears welling up in his crimson eyes.  
  
"Yami?" I whisper furtively, moving closer to him as he puts an arm around my shoulders. "What is it?"  
  
"Bakura is telling his aibou how beautiful he is."  
  
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owari  
  
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notes:  
  
- This was meant to be a one shot, unless we get cold feet and write a happy ending for Ryou and Bakura- -or if we're pressured enough to do so *hint hint!*. That article always managed to make us cry. I know it was OOC, but it had to be that way. Gomen ne! Hope you liked it! ^_~  
  
ryuujitsu & co.  
  
Review, please? 


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